


A Temporary Reprieve

by Frayach



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 05:12:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/415075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frayach/pseuds/Frayach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry lets himself explore the blessings of youth again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Temporary Reprieve

**Author's Note:**

> The age discrepancy is non-canonical. Harry is in his early fifties, and Scorpius is nineteen.

Scorpius’s body is in that precious fleeting moment of nineteen. Lithe but muscular. Still a teenager but on the verge of manhood. A butterfly that’s just struggled free of its chrysalis, brazen and beautiful, its wings still damp and drying in the sun. The crinkles turning smooth, the colours crisp and new. If he’s half in love with himself, there’s good reason for it.

Harry’s body is at a turning point too. Middle-aged and solid. Strong but not flexible. His muscles’ grip on his bones is more tenuous than it used to be, his skin more yielding. The hair on his chest is thicker and his nipples less taut – but more sensitive. _Touch me_ , his body pleads, _before it’s too late_. 

“It’s because I’m Harry Potter,” he says dispassionately.

“But you _are_ Harry Potter,” Scorpius replies. He’s being deliberately obtuse.

“There was a chapter about me in your fourth year DADA textbook.”

“I know. I wanked to the photos.”

Jesus.

“I was seventeen in those photos.”

“Not in the last one. It was taken on the third 10-year anniversary of Voldemort’s defeat. It was my favourite.”

Harry laughs. “I was thirty-seven.”

“You were hot.”

“I seemed less older than you back then.”

Scorpius groans in frustration. 

“Too much math.”

“All the more reason we shouldn’t do this.”

Scorpius ignores his words and instead straddles Harry’s thighs and sits down on Harry’s lap, facing him.

Harry had taken off his shirt and shoes and socks but not his trousers. He’s no longer young enough to trust his cock.

Scorpius, however, is naked and had been within five minutes of walking through Harry’s door. He’d read (accurately) the look in Harry’s eyes at the bar, and he was old enough to know that when Harry invited him to his flat for a coffee that no coffee would be brewed, let alone drunk.

“Your father . . .”

Scorpius places a finger against his lips.

“My father never has to know. I might live in his house, but he no longer expects me to come home every night. He’s not waiting up for me or anything.”

Draco. Christ. The last thing in the world he wants to do right now is think of Draco.

Scorpius leans forward and kisses him. He’s being bold, although Harry can’t tell if that boldness is a result of nature or necessity. Scorpius must know that if he doesn’t take the reins than neither of them will.

Harry hasn’t French kissed in ages. Tongues are unseemly after a certain age – kind of like trainers and ripped jeans. The partners he’s had since he and Ginny split were all his age or older, and the kissing was perfunctory. After forty-five, a blowjob is the kiss. Kissing is too much work, and everyone is tired after a day’s work. Orgasm is the goal, not the slow building of arousal. Who has that kind of time . . . or patience?

But clearly Scorpius wants to kiss. His tongue is as lithe as his body, and Harry’s feels fat and inert in comparison. He’s forgot how to do this. He pushes his tongue into Scorpius’s mouth gracelessly. When Scorpius makes a sound at its touch, Harry thinks he’s just being polite.

If it really isn’t because he’s Harry Potter, then why does this beautiful man-boy want him like this – enough to throw away pride and pretend that Harry’s sluggish responses are sexy? Even if he’s handsome, he’s no longer beautiful. Even if he’s strong, he’s no longer quick. Even if he’s responsive, he’s no longer a blazing bonfire.

Scorpius moans into their kiss. He squirms in Harry’s lap like a restless child, and suddenly Harry is a Dirty Old Man.

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t noticed Scorpius Malfoy before tonight. Scorpius was the brightest, the most disciplined and competent recruit of his year. But he wasn’t a bookish boy. He was the first to strip off his shirt and initiate an impromptu rugby match (rugby being the new craze at Hogwarts). He seemed to revel in the mud and grass, the brutish contact and the grunt of exertion. So unlike his genteel father whose tastes and behaviours bordered on the prissy. From the way Scorpius spoke of his father – his eyes shining and his tone reverent – it was clear he worshiped Draco. But he was unlike his father in so many ways. He was more fearless – and far more innocent despite his attraction to law enforcement. Draco had a dark side that he’d clearly protected his son from. For that Harry admired him. And at long last forgave him everything else.

“Are you going to fuck me or send me home?”

Harry inhales sharply at the bluntness of the question.

“I shouldn’t fuck you,” he says. “I’m your boss.”

“I knew you’d say that,” Scorpius says. “Do you want me to leave?”

Suddenly Harry wants to cry. Aging is as cruel as it is gradual. Inside a body slowly growing sluggish and too willing to surrender to fatigue is a young man alive and brimming with lust who wants this so much that the want borders on pain.

“No,” he says, and even he knows he sounds defeated.

Scorpius must hear the reluctance in his surrender and looks down, compelling Harry to follow his gaze. Scorpius’s penis is stiff and hard and very red. It looks annoyed at Harry’s compunction.

“Lager doesn’t make me horny, and I’ve been drinking lager all night.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning this . . .” He nods at his cock. “. . . is the real thing.”

If Scorpius wasn’t an oasis in a dessert, Harry would’ve cursed the _Prophet_ once again for disclosing the fact that he’s gay. If everyone thought he was straight, he could effortlessly avoid the overtures of women and never have to face the temptations of men.

Especially “men” less than half his age.

“I brought you back to my flat to . . .”

“. . . fuck me. And I accepted your invitation. Please don’t change your mind.”

Scorpius’s cock is lovely – long and urgent-looking red but not thick enough that Harry desires it to fuck him. If they actually do have sex, it’ll be him who’ll do the fucking.

“At least tell me I turn you on a little bit.”

Harry raises his gaze from Scorpius’s cock to his eyes. They’re uncertain and needy and so at odds with the beauty of his body.

“You turn me on,” Harry says. His voice is hoarse. He clears his throat. He’s the adult here. The fucking adult whether he likes it or not.

Merlin, he doesn’t want to have to be the adult.

“Can I at least suck you?”

Harry marvels at him. How can this beautiful boy think he doesn’t want him?

“Okay,” he rasps.

He watches as Scorpius climbs off his lap, his cock bobbing untouched even as it strains toward some kind of penetration, some moist orifice. Nature intended males his age, not Harry’s, to plant their seed. Not touching was a repudiation of nature’s intentions.

Scorpius unbuckles Harry's belt and opens his trousers slowly enough that Harry cannot tell whether he’s nervous. He raises his arse off the chair and lets Scorpius pull down both his trousers and his pants.

His fucking traitor of a cock is only half hard.

“I . . . I can stop.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

Scorpius is blushing and obviously unhappy.

Harry shakes his head. It’s as close to “yes” as he can come. Scorpius looks at him sceptically, but Harry holds his gaze steady and firm. After an agonising moment, Scorpius wraps his hand around Harry’s swollen-but-still-limp cock and lowers his head.

Harry had sucked cock a couple of times when he was a teenager. Every boy he knew at Hogwarts had. That’s what happened when there were mouths and newly-pubescent dicks in near vicinity to each other. He knew the difference between the taste of a sixteen year-old’s prick and a fifty-something man’s. The former was soap-and-Quidditch, and the latter was too much sitting and paperwork. Harry, himself, isn’t fond of the latter and is more often the receiver of oral attentions than the giver. He wants to apologise to Scorpius for the heavy unfresh taste that he must’ve encountered, but how the hell does one apologise for the taste of one’s cock?

But Scorpius is either a very good actor or very genuinely enthusiastic. He sucks and slurps and drools, all the while gripping the base of Harry’s cock. His blond head bobs between Harry’s spread thighs, and, belatedly, Harry places a gentle hand on the back of his head and weaves his fingers into Scorpius’s hair . . . because it just feels so fucking good. He lifts his arse off the chair and pushes his cock deeper into Scorpius’s mouth.

If Scorpius was as experienced as partners Harry’s own age, he’d be jerking himself off so that when Harry came, he could soon after. Then they could both get ready to go to bed, sated and ready to sleep . . .

But Scorpius isn’t wanking. One hundred percent of his attention is focused on sucking Harry’s cock. His attention is so absolute that Harry feels guilty. Scorpius should take his pleasure into his own hands – so to speak.

Harry’s cock is finally hard, and his balls are soaked with spit when he gently pushes Scorpius’s head back. Scorpius’s eyes hold the same look they might hold if he’d failed an assignment.

“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” he stammers. “I wanted to make you come.”

Harry looks down at his lap, and Scorpius’s eyes follow his gaze unthinkingly. Harry’s cock is sticking straight up and the head is purple.

Where are they going with this? Wouldn’t it be easier if he just let Scorpius finish him off with his mouth?

“Sit on my lap again.” Harry says, and Scorpius complies.

“I’m the Head Aurour,” Harry says matter-of-factly once Scorpius is settled into his lap with his thighs squeezing Harry’s waist.

“I know,” Scorpius replies.

“I shouldn’t be doing this.”

“I know.”

Harry places his hands on Scorpius’s hips and pulls him up just a little bit.

“I’m not going to treat you with any favouritism.”

“I know that,” Scorpius says breathlessly as Harry casts a lubricating charm.

“This cannot mean more than this.”

“I know.”

Harry releases his grasp on Scorpius’s hips. He holds his cock steady and nods.

Scorpius’s body is tense as he sits down and impales himself. He’s trembling, virginal, and Harry panics.

“You’ve done this before, right?” he asks and then groans raggedly as Scorpius’s arse comes to rest against his thighs. He can’t go any deeper in this position.

“Of course,” Scorpius says in an obvious lie.

“Oh God,” Harry whispers and closes his eyes. He could – and should – be terminated for this. Draco . . . Draco is going to stalk him to ends of the earth . . .

Jesus. He wishes he could care.

“Does . . . does it feel okay?” he whispers, and Scorpius’s answering laugh is breathless.

“It would feel better if you’d actually fuck me,” he answers.

So Harry does.

His softened belly is tight. His jaw is clenched. The muscles in his thighs strain to the point of discomfort as Scorpius’s young body rides his cock. The sounds he makes are undignified, and he dreads to imagine what his face looks like – stubbled, flush-cheeked and greedy. He grasps Scorpius’s muscular arse in both hands, and, with his superior strength, uses Scorpius’s body as a means toward an elusive orgasm. Up down up down up down up down up down up down. The squelch of their fucking and Scorpius’s little cries fill the silence.

God, Harry hopes this isn’t just some kind of teacher-student thing. Or even worse, a daddy fetish. He wants to be himself. He wants Scorpius to see a man, not a role.

“Say my name,” he gasps.

Scorpius blushes. “Uhm . . .”

“Harry. Say my name. I’m not Mr. Potter.”

“Harry,” Scorpius replies too tentatively.

It will have to do.

Harry looks down and sees that the head of Scorpius’s cock is wet and no longer just red, but he can feel Scorpius’s thighs tremble. He’s getting tired. It’s taking too long for Harry to come. He tries not to let embarrassment soften his cock.

“Touch yourself,” he demands, foreclosing the possibility of refusal. He won’t not be able to climax if he watches Scorpius come.

Scorpius’s hands are braced against the back of the couch, but he moves one to grasp his cock. Immediately his rhythm breaks, and Harry closes his eyes in disappointment. He needs predictability or it’s not going to work. He has to take over. He grips Scorpius’s hips tightly and pushes him up until his cock slips out. Scorpius whimpers.

“Get on your knees,” Harry says too gruffly, and Scorpius scrambles off his lap and moves to the floor.

“Forearms,” Harry says as he kneels behind him. He spreads Scorpius’s arse open to look at his anus. It’s pink and swollen and slick. Harry traces it with his fingertip and feels Scorpius shiver.

His cock is still hard but no longer rigid. Harry marvels at it – at its brazen betrayal. He casts another lubricating charm and seizes it, pumping it angrily. He’s furious at his body. Furious at the passage of the years. Scorpius whimpers and wriggles his arse.

“Wank,” Harry says roughly. He desperately wants this to work but with every passing second that wanting makes it less likely. Before it can become too late, he presses the head of his cock against Scorpius’s anus and pushes in ungently, all the while griping his cock so tightly it hurts. He grabs Scorpius hips and yank them back as he thrusts forward savagely. Over and over and over, riding the merciless rhythm he finds. He gives up on any pretence of romance and stares at his cock as it pistons in and out of Scorpius’ body, noisy with the thick wetness of the lube. His grunts are more angry than passionate – angry at himself for needing to be brutish.

But Scorpius comes anyway. He cries out, and his channel squeezes tight for a blissful second before it starts convulsing.

“God,” Harry moans, and suddenly his body slips free of the bonds of middle-age. He slams his hips against Scorpius’s arse and freezes, coming hard. Harder than he’d thought possible. He shudders with a gratitude as fierce as the release of tension. He pulls out and collapses ungracefully onto his back, panting and groaning. When Scorpius turns around, his eyes are wide with awe. Harry laughs breathlessly.

“What?”

“Merlin! I wish I could come like that!” 

Ah, the irony.

“Having fewer orgasms makes the ones you do have pretty intense.”

His cock is twitching against his belly with little more dignity than a fish on dry land, and shudders continue to pulse through him in waves of only gradually dwindling pleasure.

“Fuck,” he moans, squeezing his eyes shut. “Ah, _fuck_.” When he opens them again, Scorpius is still watching him with wide eyes. Harry can see his greedy young cock start to swell again.

“I regret to say that you’re going to have to take care of that yourself,” he says with a nod at Scorpius’s crotch. “I’m finished.”

He tries to feel bad about it, but he can’t. He’s too grateful for the orgasm nature had graced him with.

They dress, and Harry makes them tea. Despite its necessity, this will be the hard part.

“So,” he says gently when the second pot is empty. “Are you ready for your first field assignment tomorrow?”

He watches Scorpius’s cheeks pale as he swallows.

“Yeah,” he says in a small voice. “I think so.”

“You will be,” Harry says. “I have every reason to feel confident in your abilities.”

Scorpius nods and then swallows again. He places his teacup on the table and stands.

He simply cannot spend the night. Sex is one thing, but waking up together is another. There has to be boundaries. Especially if they want to do this again – and Harry does. Desperately. Achingly.

He stands as well and walks Scorpius to the door. Scorpius’s eyes are too shiny. He has to say something.

“I’m glad this happened,” he says.

Scorpius merely nods.

“I mean that.”

Before Scorpius can nod again, he leans forward and kisses him lingeringly.

“And I wouldn’t be opposed to it happening again.”

This time Scorpius smiles. His relief and gratitude are as obvious as his hurt and disappointment had been.

“Good night, Auror Potter, sir,” he says.

Harry cringes but recognises it’s time to make that transition.

“Good night, Mr. Malfoy.”

Harry opens the door for him and stands on the threshold as Scorpius gives him a timid wave and then turns to walk down the hallway. Only when Harry hears the ding of the lift does he close the door.

He sighs with contentment and sweet exhaustion. When he looks around the flat he’s owned for twenty years, it looks new again. There’s a damp stain on the carpet that Scorpius made when he came.

Harry would clean it up tomorrow.

 

_fin._


End file.
